Kübler-Ross
by Ione
Summary: "And in her mind she'll be dying." Jessica Jones knows what it is to mourn your own death. A story of grief and recovery, told 500 words at a time. Rated for language, psychological and physical abuse. COMPLETE.
1. Denial

This can't be happening.

If there's one thing Jessica Jones is used to counting on, it's her body. Strong, fast, sure...ever since discovering the limits of her powers in her late teens, she's known exactly what she's capable of. The knowledge that no one could force her to do anything she didn't want to was the only consolation she'd known after the death of her family. Well, _one_ of the only consolations she'd known, anyway.

The man across from her—slurping greasy noodles from greasier chopsticks—is a broomstick, skinny and bushy-haired, annoyingly chatty, with the conversational sensitivity of a steamroller. Listening to him natter on about his trials at various Chinese restaurants in the city would be irritating even if he hadn't ordered her to eat, smile, and keep her _delicious little mouth shut_.

Jessica tries again and again to roll her eyes, to sneer, to throw down her own chopsticks and stalk out, preferably after giving him a nice shiner to remember her by. It's what the asshole deserves.

But she can't move.

There's a short-circuit in her brain. She keeps sending commands to her legs— _get up, damn you!—_ her lips— _wipe that stupid grin off your face!—_ but his orders cut them off before her muscles can respond.

It's every nightmare she's ever had; able to see destruction coming, unable to do anything about it.

"Try some of these noodles, Jessica. The sauce is hot enough to burn even your spicy tongue out."

She hates spicy food. But mouth is muzzled and her hands are eager to please. Still, he hasn't commanded her not to cough, as she does when she takes the first bite. Coughs and coughs until tears run down her cheeks.

"Oh now, it can't be all that bad. Suck it up, can't you? And wipe your face; that clumpy mascara of yours isn't waterproof."

 _I'm not even wearing mascara, you blind fuck_ is what she wants to say. She doesn't. She wipes her face, swallows the fire in her throat and takes another bite, gagging to obey him over every natural impulse.

"That's better," he grins. "Isn't this nice, darling? Much better than what you had planned, innit?"

"It's nice," her throat's raw, eyes teary. He doesn't seem to notice.

"I can think of an even nicer way to... _celebrate._ "

Suddenly she wants to gag for a whole new reason. She could knock those gleaming teeth down his throat; if only she weren't so fucking _weak._

"In fact, I think I've had enough, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Good," he stands, tossing his napkin straight over the plate of noodles. The chili sauce stains it like blood. "Come on. I bet you've never even been _in_ a five-star hotel before, have you?"

This can't be happening. _It can't be._


	2. Anger

Jessica is on fire.

There are coals in her stomach, flames licking her throat, red-hot brands behind her eyes. Waking or sleeping, fighting or fucking, the inferno of rage doesn't flicker for an instant.

She's used to anger. It's—as her hospital-issued therapist used to despairingly remark—her natural state. It won't destroy her; instead, it fuels her relentless fight against Kilgrave.

She's making progress. There are limits to his powers; limits of time and distance. He also has to be specific for guaranteed results; she's had fun with _that_ particular weakness. At the start of every twelve-hour cycle, he recites a list that currently includes thirty-three commands. It begins with _don't kill me_ and ends with _don't spit in my food._

Every time the list gets longer, she feels the burning pleasure of schadenfreude. It's not unlike the bilious scorch of acid reflux.

 _It's been ten and a half days,_ she thinks. _He can't put up with me forever. He won't._

 _No one ever does._

She stands, docile and smiling, and waits for him to add another order. After the stunt she pulled yesterday—he'd forgotten to specify _no teeth—_ she expects punishment, retribution. More fodder for the flame that drives her war machine.

It doesn't come. Instead, Kilgrave stares at her, bug eyes considering, before saying, "Come along."

For the first time since muggers and Szechuan, he lets her outside. They are still in New York, but as far from Hell's Kitchen as you could get. People in this part of town wear sables and mink against the chill; he's dressed her in fox-fur and tweed and sky-high Louboutins to match.

More important, the money on this block means there are policemen on the corners, security guards by the stores. She can't scream, but she could still do any number of things to get their attention.

Her mouth actually opens before he says, "Don't."

"Don't what?" she can play dumb, no rules (yet) against that.

"It wouldn't help. I could have them draw their guns and shoot each other, or gun down these," he rolls his eyes, " _innocent_ bystanders here. And all that blood, Jessica Jones, would be on _your_ heroic hands."

The icy truth of his words sputter against her righteous fury. But as the implications sink in, she feels it weaken and die.

Kilgrave's watching her, a satisfied smile curving sharp on his narrow lips. "That's right, darling. You're too good to let that happen. And besides," he tugs her forward, ignoring the stuttering stumble of her heels, "I'm not really asking for all that much, am I? I _like_ you. I wanna show you a good time. That isn't worth all this _fuss_ , is it?"

She replies without waiting for his order. "No."

"Then let's have no more of this unpleasantness, yeah?"

"No."


	3. Bargaining

He takes her from New York, to Paris, to Sicily. At each exquisite hotel, each palatial mansion, each delectable restaurant, Jessica is constantly aware of the herd of humanity—breathing, laughing, vibrant humanity—that could end in bloody horror if she doesn't play the part he demands.

So she plays. Smiles, sits through his inane chatter, his empty compliments, his cringe-worthy pillow-talk. She swallows her disdain instead of spitting it in his face. She waits. She watches.

Every day, they pass hundreds of beautiful women, any of which could be his for the asking. Though his eyes—so far—have invariably returned from their wanderings with comments on her superiority, he can't want her forever.

He can't. He can't, he _can't—_

Jessica stops herself before she hyperventilates. Even so, it takes a while to find enough composure to reach for her wine. It's her sixth glass that night, but she needs more. The heavy drunken fog she exists in makes it possible to get through his commands, his caresses, his _taste_ ; sweat and salt, filmy scum that never leaves her mouth.

Their waitress refills her glass. She is lovely; long blonde hair braided like a crown. Jessica likes watching the low lights of the sconces gleam in its gold. Her own hair eats light.

Maybe—

Jessica chokes as her throat clamps shut. She's disgusting. A piece of shit who would rather sacrifice someone innocent than deal with this monster herself.

 _Some fucking hero you are._

Still, the idea persists. After all, it's not like she'd be responsible. If Kilgrave happened to see someone...

It's hollow reasoning, rotten from the inside out. But she clings to it, because she's come to realize that there's no other escape. Fighting him is beyond her strength, outwitting him is beyond her skill. And if she does either, there's always the possibility that he won't laugh it off, that his mercurial temper will shift, that someone will suffer.

Unless he sees someone else. Unless it becomes _someone else's turn._

Her attention's drifted too long; he's stopped talking.

"Stand right there, darling," he commands their server. Her smile freezes as his influence turns her bones to ice. "I think my girl wants to have a look at you."

He turns to Jessica, nose wrinkled. "She's not _my_ style, love. But if _you'd_ like a treat—"

"No!" she cries. _Too aggressive._ "Her hair, it just...reminded me of Trish."

"Ah," he grins, "good ol' Patsy! You must miss the genuine article...but there's nothing wrong with a stand-in," his hand curves around the woman's thigh.

"No," Jessica repeats, bile rising. Escape doesn't matter; she _can't_ let this happen.

Quickly, she slides her naked foot along his thigh. His hissed inhale fills her with a nauseating mix of triumph and loathing.

Low and husky, she whispers, "I want you all to myself."


	4. Depression

She realizes she's given up hope of escape the first time he has to order her into the shower.

Usually she can't wait to wiggle away from him in the aftermath and lock herself in the bathroom, to scrape or scorch the feeling of him from between her legs. He allows her the privacy as he allows her anything—only when it ultimately benefits him.

He doesn't like to feel her pressed sticky and sweaty against his back.

But that night she feels no disgust. No anger, no hatred...no purpose. She can't stop him doing this, and all the aftercare in the world won't patch the gaping, ragged tears in her heart, in her brain. In the face of night after night of being trapped, listless in her own body as he makes her smile and suck and spread...

Jessica lies exactly where he left her, a marionette whose puppeteer has lost interest in his toy.

He yawns, shifts. "You know I hate that smell, darling."

She doesn't reply. A curious numbness in her face spreads to her throat, steals through her chest and runs into her fingers. His words distort in her ears, a jumble of notes that have less meaning than the rumbles and sirens of the city outside.

"Jessica," he tugs at the sheets caught under her body, " _move_ , love."

She rolls to face the window, naked body reflected bloodless in the glass. Not even the ghosting memory of shame gives any warmth; she can't remember the last time Kilgrave's exhibitionist streak made her cringe.

"Don't you love it?" he whispers, nestling his head on her shoulder, dark eyes studying hers in the window's reflection. "Knowing that anyone with eyes could look up and see _everything_..."

He palms her breast and her heartbeat stutters. She used to _despise_ this, loathe the fact that he knew things about her body, knew how to get a rise from her regardless of the silent screaming denials in her mind.

But she doesn't feel it now. Not his fingers teasing her nipple, not his breath stirring the damp hairs at her temple. Even he can sense the change. His hand slips down, over the spot on her belly that usually makes her giggle, lower until—

"Ugh," he pulls back, wipes his palm on the sheets. "I think you need a shower."

It's an command in all but name. Jessica doesn't move. She stares at the window until she can't see it anymore, until her pale shape shimmers and dissolves right before her eyes.

He playfully slaps her ass but the mild sting doesn't register. Neither does his annoyed little laugh. While he's trying to figure out her game, she's just trying to keep her disparate atoms together. But is it even worth it?

"Don't drag your feet, Jessica," he turns away from her, lumps the blankets around him. "Go clean yourself up."


	5. Acceptance

Jessica Jones is dead.

She's not sure when she died. She just knows whatever ghost now lives in her skin is not what she was before. This _thing_ is little more than a wind-up doll, obedient to the will of its master, thinking no thoughts and taking no actions beyond what he allows. The memory of hard-drinking, trash-talking Jessica Jones is difficult to believe.

Any memory that doesn't involve Kilgrave is too fantastic to be real.

The days blend together in a blur of conning people out of rich food or expensive things, then fucking when the rush becomes overwhelming. Overwhelming for him, that is, not her. She doesn't feel much beyond what he commands her to. Not anymore.

This night is different. There is a woman—pretty, strong-willed, and scared, so _scared—_ and a parking garage. There's an ax in her hand and the order: _dig._

She finds what he's looking for and what she's trying to hide. Then she waits.

The waiting used to be unbearable. Kilgrave has two reactions to those he uses: indifference and malice. Indifference means he commands them to forget, to walk away. Malice usually means death in a gory, self-inflicted sense.

Jessica's lost count of how many suicides she's seen.

This night is different.

"Take care of her."

Something stirs inside, some echo of herself that tries to stop it. _This is wrong_ , it says, _she's innocent; you're not a killer._

But she's lost the trick of thinking around his commands. Already her arm is cocking back, shooting forward, and—

When the blow lands, Jessica feels her own heart stop. The rag-doll way the woman flops in the street—the tree-trunk _snap_ of her sternum—make her want to vomit.

 _I'm sorry,_ Jessica screams, heartsick, helpless, _God damn it, I'm sorry!_

Without thinking, she stumbles towards her victim, palms open and shaking before her. As if the woman might still be frightened of her, now she's dead.

"Get back here, Jessica."

 _No,_ she thinks, desperate. And keeps walking.

"Now, Jessica!"

She doesn't hear it, but she turns just in time to see the bus barrel-roll end over end. It smashes Kilgrave on one side.

It buries Reva on the other.

The street is silent save for the tinkle of glass, the squeal of metal, the groans of the wounded.

And Kilgrave's voice—for so long a voice louder and more important than God's—is gone.

She doesn't know what to do. The world without Kilgrave is loud, frightening, and full of dangers that she doesn't remember how to face. The Jessica-that-was would have known. But she—whoever _she_ is—is just a child, newly-awakened from the grave and clawing off her shroud.

Jessica Jones is alive.

But she knows that night—and for many nights afterwards—that she'd be better off dead.


	6. Rebirth

Jessica Jones is alive.

She's not good at it.

Everything is difficult. Everything hurts. It takes her weeks to prove her identity without ID, longer to withdraw what remains of her pitiful bank account. In the meantime, she lives in a shelter, wears donated clothes, and eats canned vegetables, over-salted soup, and stale bread.

People surround her, press in from all sides. Therapists do _pro bono_ sessions, social workers twitter sympathetically. Her dormitory is full of women like her...battered, abandoned, hollowed.

She should say she doesn't miss anything about her life...before. She should say that the freedom of her mind and body is worth any comforts lost.

But if she says that, she'd be lying.

It's hard to avoid comparisons when her life now objectively sucks ass. Her days repeat in a depressing fog of nothings, broken only by intervals of nightmarish sleep. Instinct rules her the way it rules an animal; she eats when food is available, drinks when she can steal it from underneath someone's cot, and avoids the do-gooders who want her to talk, go outside, find a job.

But there are too many women to help, and Jessica can easily slip through the cracks.

She loses track of time, blacked-out on a vicious cocktail of unsatisfied hatred, bitter self-recrimination, and soul-rotting shame. And the vodka, whiskey, and bourbon she steals. That helps, too.

In the end, it's the drink that gets her back into the world again.

Marnie drops a full bottle of Wild Turkey on Jessica's cot in the morning and only asks $10 for it. Naturally she pays and doesn't give it another thought until she's halfway through the bottle that night and Marnie comes around again with some Smirnov.

Marnie has two kids to support and she works double shifts at the nearby McDonald's. She usually sells leftover burgers, not liquor. Jessica turns down the vodka and takes another swig of bourbon, trying not to think about it. It's not her business. If Marnie wants to screw up her life, her kids' lives, it's her damn business.

But it bothers her. It rankles. Jessica knows she won't get any rest until she knows the truth.

So she visits the nearest bodega to find that—sure enough—it's been knocked over.

She doesn't care. Why should she? The store has cameras, Marnie works nearby...the cops will find her.

Jessica turns away from the sight of the shopkeeper sweeping up shattered glass. She turns away from the police studying the scene. She turns away and walks until the half-bottle of bourbon scorches her stomach and she vomits corn flakes and bile into the alley.

Later that night she calls in a tip.

Watching Marnie get marched out the door the next day gives her no satisfaction.

But it gives her something.

Two weeks later, she signs the lease on an apartment.


	7. Spiral

As more time and distance accumulate between Jessica and before, she comes to realize that this is it. The heat-haze of fury and booze that clouds her vision—though it allows her to put one foot in front of the other—is never going to dissipate. The bitter taste of guilt in the back of her throat is nothing new.

Life has never been better than what she's made it now.

What happened before...didn't ruin something good. It just made her shit existence worse. It made her romanticize the agonizing monotony of part-time jobs, temp work, and customer service.

Now that she's back into it, Jessica remembers how miserable it really was.

What's galling is that she has it better than most in this piss-pot of a city. Jessica works the graveyard shift at a bodega, tramps two blocks over to cover the morning rush—and steal bagels—at Java Joe's, heads back to the bodega to buy a bottle of whatever's cheapest, then drinks it until she passes out.

The cycle repeats until she wants to shrivel up. But she doesn't know what else to do.

For two days in a row she calls off from both her jobs and sits at home, working through two magnums of cheap wine and turning this thought over and over in her mind.

She doesn't know what else to do. Never has. As a teenager, she'd floated. As an adult, she'd let her past trauma absolve her from the necessity of doing something with...God, it's not even her _gift_ , it's her goddamn _life_ and she's been fucking _wasting it_ , the whole goddamn—

Jessica screams and smashes the bottle against the wall, watching the red of the wine bleed into the already water-warped plaster in a Dali-esque metaphor for her whole messed-up self.

She's a fucking waste. A horrible excuse for a human, let alone a hero.

A hero. Trish thought she could be a hero.

The thought of Trish breaks her and she sobs, bends to the floor where wine soaks her jeans and her fingers clutch uselessly at splintered shards of glass.

The thing is, Jessica knows why Trish believes in her. It's because Trish believes in _herself_. She dragged herself out of the ashes of a burnt-out childhood and built a life where people respect and trust her. She's stronger than Jessica will _ever_ be, ability to punch through a brick wall notwithstanding.

Jessica misses her. _Has_ missed her, through...everything, before. But she's not about to throw herself across her friend as another burden to carry. She's not going to see pity in Trish's eyes; no, never.

But maybe, just maybe...

She can't be a hero. Even at her best, she never could have been. That's clear now.

But she _can_ be more than this. She has to be.


	8. Bedrock

"Where the _hell_ have you been? Do you have _any idea—_ " Trish stops just shy of screaming because people are beginning to stare. She drops her voice to a razor-edged hiss, " _Any idea at all_ how worried I was?"

Jessica can't feel the bite of her words any more than if they were flaying her alive, inch by inch. It costs her to conceal the pain, the blood, but she's gotten good at hiding her truths.

She shrugs; insolent, sneering. "Nope. It's not like we've been talking over these past few months."

"And whose fault is that?" coffee slops over the edge of her mug as she slams it down, "I tried to find you. I put investigators on your tail, but..." her rage flickers out, smothered in confusion and hurt, "where did you _go_? Why didn't you call me?"

The lies want to come, want to wrap her in a comforting blanket of distance and scorn. But when she opens her mouth to speak, her breath comes hard and fast, and harder and faster, until her throat burns and she can't see and she might be screaming but she can't tell—

Then it stops. It stops because Trish is holding her, holding together all the pieces that have never really come together...since the day her family died. It stops because Trish is stroking her hair with steady hands and because Trish's heart is right under Jessica's ear. It beats steadily, smoothly, a primordial rhythm that regulates something fragmented inside Jessica's own chest.

It's everything she's dreaded and everything she needs, this chance encounter with Trish. Everything.

When an inkling of her strength seeps back, she tries to pull away. The embarrassment of slobbering all over her famous friend's silk blouse in the middle of a hipster enclave is enough humiliation to carry for one lifetime.

Trish won't have it. She hums softly under her breath, just as she used to when Jessica would wake screaming and fighting from the nightmares. It's so familiar that the tears bloom hot beneath her lids and spill again into the dark wells beneath her eyes.

Jessica burns with the shame and basks in the comfort.

"Come on," Trish says, sliding sideways off her chair, somehow without jostling Jessica at all in the process, "I'm taking you home."

Jessica doesn't even manage a "no" before Trish has her standing upright, then walking, unsteady as a fawn. She tries to ignore the way a waiter scoots over to unlock the cafe's doors and flip their sign back to "open". But as Trish hands the same man a wad of cash for his services, she snarls:

"If you didn't want to be seen with a lunatic, you could've just left."

"God damn it, Jessica," Trish shoots back, weary fury distorting her practiced, cultured voice, "for once in your life, just shut the hell up."


	9. Climb

She runs, eventually. She has to.

It's not because Trish doesn't do everything in her considerable power to help her, of course.

It's that Jessica can't help but get in the way. Going to the police is impossible; after a few drunken confessions that end in screaming fits, even Trish concedes that. But what she can't understand that being helped _at all_ —by a doctor there to vaccinate her, by a therapist trying to win her trust, even by her best friend—is horrifying.

For months, Kilgrave had sworn that all he'd wanted to do was _help_ her. Help her see the world, help her be her _best self_...when she hears the same jargon from the parade of smooth-talking professionals Trish lines up to see her...

They'd call it a trigger. Everything in her whole damn life is a damn trigger.

Paradoxically, the life of ease Trish offers—to get her bearings, to recover—is harder than living as a hand-to-mouth drunk. At least when she was responsible for herself, she had to be _responsible_ ; wake up on time, drag herself through the business of living. Here, where she has a roach-free room that's cleaned every other day, where she has Trish to coddle her and buy the food that she wants and tell her it's all right to stay in bed if she needs to...

It's nothing like before, it's not, but Jessica can't help feeling the way she does. Somehow, every time she wakes up warm and comfortable, she has a moment of blind, searing panic where she thinks she'll roll over and see—

So one day, while Trish is in a meeting, Jessica packs up her stuff and goes. Anything that connects her to Trish, anything that her friend could use to find her, she ditches. But she's too practical not to take the cash stashed around the house, or the stack of new clothes Trish had bought her. Unless her nebulous plan works out, these jeans and hoodies will have to last her a long time.

The doorman bows her out with a smile and a cheery "see you soon".

The minute the door closes behind her and she's hit with a fetid blast of New York air, she feels instant relief in the loneliness of solitude. She shoves her hands into her pockets, sets her head into the wind, and walks away without a backward glance.

It probably means something that, for the first time in a long time, she feels more optimistic than otherwise. These few weeks of respite have given her a lot. Time, perspective. Understanding.

She can't let someone make her life for her. She has to do it herself, however shitty the results. And at last, she's started doing just that.

In the very bottom of her bag are papers. Papers that bear the simple heading:

 _Alias Investigations, Ltd._


	10. Commit

He comes back.

It's an endless, suffocating night-terror. Step by step she follows his trail, his humiliations, realizing finally that the girl he has in his grip is nothing more than a pawn.

Jessica is his endgame.

Unable to breathe, hardly capable of thought, she can act only on instinct; the instinct to run, run as far and as fast as she can before he calls checkmate.

It's the only thing to do.

So why do Trish's words keep echoing in her head?

 _I know that you are far better equipped to deal with that animal than some poor girl from Omaha!_

Trish never understood the reality of Kilgrave, how could she? The idea that someone could, with a whisper, not only make you do anything but make you _want_ to do anything...

But Jessica understands. She knows.

Better to die than let him get his hands on her a second time. And really, she should have died when she was sixteen, should have died with her family. Every day, every _minute_ lived afterwards has been a mistake, a gift given in error.

Even as this thought rises, Jessica feels her heart pound fiercely, hands trembling with the pulsing rush of blood. She wants her life for as long as she can keep it.

Running. Solid plan. As solid as any plan can be that is, when it involves Kilgrave. Jessica sets her face to the airport and shuts her eyes as the streets fly by.

Poisonous mushroom-doubts grow in the shadows of her mind:

 _Sucks about Hope, of course. Pity the poor kid, but she's just bait. That asshole won't get the satisfaction of catching me so easy. It's not my responsibility. I don't deserve this. I never did._

 _It's not my fault._

All true.

All irrelevant. Rationalizations. Cowardice. Jessica's stomach sinks with roiling, acidic shame; of all things she has ever been, a coward is not one of them. Yet here she is, ready to leave this kid to a life of—

It's unbearable.

What if someone had tried—even if knowing it was hopeless—to help her? What if someone—even though unconnected to her—had cared?

It probably wouldn't have changed anything, but it would have meant everything.

Of course, it's hopeless. The minute she's in earshot, it'll be over.

But Hope will be free. Maybe.

Maybe—Jessica winces, brow furrowing in the gut-shot pain of the thought—she can make him happy enough that he'll forget Hope entirely.

She knows how to do that.

It's a horrible plan. It can't help but be. Still, the words spill out in a ragged rush:

"Actually, I need to make a stop first."

Jessica Jones is a rancid piece of shit, a sucking waste of space, a piping hot mess, but she is _not_ a fucking coward.

She'll be damned if he makes her into one.

 **Fin**


End file.
